


Look After You

by yamswrites



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26016166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamswrites/pseuds/yamswrites
Summary: "I want to take care of you," Aziraphale says. The words are spoken so gently, a hushed whisper that Aziraphale hopes will not reach God's ears.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 75





	Look After You

**Author's Note:**

> prompt fill i got a while back that i meant to finish but i am a Mess. this is the first thing i've ever posted for a/c but i've written a ton. also first thing i've posted in ages??? ajkfjkgljk. i have more i'd like to post from GO, hopefully i actually get around to doing it kajldkfjglk
> 
> prompt: no. 51: “ I want to take care of you. ”

They are pulling up to the bookshop, Crowley had offered Aziraphale a lift home, after all. Crowley puts the car into park. Aziraphale speaks, but his words are so quiet, Crowley can scarcely hear them over the radio. He turns the music down, then turns to look at Aziraphale— who does not offer up his previous sentence. 

"Come again?" Crowley asks.

"I'd like you to come inside. Your feet must hurt so terribly," Aziraphale says. His voice is quiet, but he doesn't quite meet Crowley's gaze. He's been quiet the entire ride home. Crowley has stolen glances at him. There is an almost dreamy quality to Aziraphale's eyes. Crowley had seen him out of the corner of his eye, as he'd pulled out the books earlier, and looked over every one of them. Aziraphale had turned them over, his fingers running over spines and pages. He'd been astounded to see each one intact, nothing short of, well, a miracle.

"I'm fine," Crowley says, as if he doesn't want to intrude, but it's more that he wants which he cannot and should not have.

"Crowley," Aziraphale says, meeting Crowley's gaze behind his tinted shades. His hand is gentle as it sets over Crowley's. It's warm. Crowley wants to bask in Aziraphale's warmth as he basked beneath the sun in Eden, when everything was still so new.

"I want to take care of you," Aziraphale says. The words are spoken so gently, a hushed whisper that Aziraphale hopes will not reach God's ears. He hopes Crowley will agree, that he will not be the stubborn old serpent he is, sputter and snap— without any true venom— that he does not need coddling.

But, to Aziraphale's relief and surprise, he does none of those things. Crowley looks to where Aziraphale's hand rests upon his own. Aziraphale draws back, but Crowley takes his hand. It's not tight. Aziraphale could slip through his grasp with ease, if he wanted to. He does not.

"Okay," Crowley says.

The street is dark, the bookshop as well. The bell rings as Aziraphale opens the door for Crowley, and once inside, he leads him to the back. By candlelight, Aziraphale gently guides Crowley to a chair almost too cozy for words. Aziraphale is careful as he helps Crowley slip out of his shoes and socks. Gentle as can be, he washes his feet with water fetched from another room. Neither of them says a word, but it reminds Aziraphale of the carpenter from Galilee and the woman who followed him, who washed his feet with her hair. 

Crowley tries to put on a brave face, but he winces here and there. Aziraphale's expression is apologetic, but he knows Crowley will waive off any apologies. Not your fault, he'd say.

Aziraphale hesitates, but he cannot hold it in. He wants to say this. He takes a deep breath, eyes darting up to meet Crowley's gaze— those beautiful, wondrous snake eyes. Aziraphale says, "Thank you—"

"No, don't," Crowley says.

Aziraphale nods, and he can't hide his expression. It's in the way his lips turn, the furrow between his brows. Crowley's chest aches.

"You don't ever have to thank me, you know," Crowley says.

"Because you're a demon," Aziraphale replies. It's not a question, but it's not angry, either.

"That's not what I meant," Crowley says.

Aziraphale looks up at him. There aren't any words he can say, so he doesn't. He lets them sit caught in his throat, just like the rest of the words he'd thought tonight. But, it's okay. More than, really. Tonight is a good night, all things considered. He wasn't discorporated, after all. There will be no paperwork. He has his books.

He has Crowley, too. Even if he doesn't quite realize it.


End file.
